Brett and Anderson nearly bowled her over.
The two of them came barrelling around the corner like a pair of over-caffeinated rhinos who'd just discovered fire, faces flushed the color of cheap merlot, eyes bulging with the kind of panic usually reserved for men realising the condom broke nine months ago.
They shoulder-checked her hard enough to make her stagger, didn't even toss back the obligatory "sorry" that civilised wankers at least pretend to feel, and kept thundering down the hall like the devil had scheduled a performance review.
Absolute wankers!
Delilah smoothed her rumpled uniform with the calm dignity of someone mentally adding names to a very slow-burning shit list.
Those two had been at it all afternoon—sprinting through corridors, kicking open classroom doors, hunting someone or something with the frantic energy of virgins on prom night who'd heard a rumour about an unlocked janitor's closet.
Whatever meltdown they were chasing, it wasn't hers to babysit.
